by Tom Clancy
Although the army base is on the outskirts of Baghdad, I notice the presence of many construction cranes in the distance, no doubt rebuilding the once great city. The 2003 war inflicted a great deal of damage. The 1991 Gulf War had also destroyed a significant portion of Baghdad, including schools, bridges, and hospitals. These were rebuilt over the next decade, only to be leveled once again. Baghdad has probably been demolished and rebuilt so many times throughout history that it’s a wonder that the city still exists. Nevertheless, it’s a very modern metropolis. There are portions of Baghdad that resemble the downtown areas of any major city in the West. On the other hand, Islamic architecture abounds in many areas, with pedestrian labyrinths of tight alleyways and court-yards. The mosques are spectacular, covered in intricate patterns of colored stones. Some neighborhoods of traditional housing still remain. Elaborate overhanging balconies—shenashil—that are really upper rooms distinguish narrow streets of traditional quarters. Handsomely decorated doorways front onto the street. One can get lost wandering through the maze-like paths of the older sections that are full of character and charm. I had been to Baghdad previously, before the war, and remember being struck then by the beauty of the place, hidden behind a facade of pain, hardship, and despair. Today, I’m sure, it’s no different.
I debark and present my special NSA papers identifying me as an Interpol police detective from Switzerland. I use my own name, but this cover story will go much further in Iraq than if I went around saying I’m an espionage agent with the NSA. As far as my business in Iraq is concerned, I am researching a report that Interpol will publish on the current state of terrorism in the Middle East. Once I’m cleared to enter the base, a sergeant leads me to an office in the bustling command center. The sergeant never says a word, but he eyes me curiously. I must look like one strange civilian to him, especially since I have NSA clearance. The sergeant leaves me in the hands of my contact, Lieutenant Colonel Dan Petlow, who greets me in a businesslike fashion. When we’re alone in his office, he tells me that he’s the only army officer in Iraq who’s aware of my mission. It turns out that he knows Colonel Lambert and has been in on the doings of Third Echelon for a long time.
“I was Rick Benton’s contact as well,” Petlow says before I can ask.
Petlow is about my age. I ask him how long he’s been in the country, and he replies that he’s lost track of the time.
“Not really, I’m just being facetious,” he says. “I’ve been here sixteen months now. This country tends to sour you.”
He offers me a soft drink and I take it. We sit under an electric fan because the AC in the building is being repaired. It feels like Phoenix, Arizona, outside, and it’s an oven in the office.
“Tell me about Benton,” I begin.
“He seemed capable but a bit reckless,” Petlow says. “I met with him face-to-face only twice. Didn’t know him well at all. He knew his stuff, though. He was an expert on all things Middle East.”
“What do you know about his recent investigation?”
“The arms dealing? Not much. Benton kept that stuff close to his chest. He kept saying he was working on uncovering a Shop pipeline coming from the north into Iraq. He said the arms have been pouring into Mosul. That means they’re coming from Iran and then through Rawanduz to get to Mosul, or they’re coming from Turkey through the town of Amadiyah. Both of those villages are in KDP-controlled territory.”
Mosul is perhaps the biggest city in northern Iraq. It’s just out of the region controlled by the officially sanctioned Kurdistan Regional Government and the site of a lot of unrest, mainly between different Kurdish factions. Rawanduz is a village between Mosul and the Iranian border. Likewise, Amadiyah is a village north of Mosul, near the Turkish border. Two Kurdish political parties influence everything that happens in northern Iraq. In 1946 a recognized Kurdish hero named Mulla Mustafa Barzani formed the oldest one, the Kurdistan Democratic Party — the KDP — which has cultural ties to Iran. The second party, the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan — the PUK — formed in 1976 as a rival to the KDP. There are other, smaller Kurdish parties, but the KDP and PUK are the big daddies. In theory they share governmental responsibilities of Kurdish Iraq, but the KDP seems to have more power. In recent years the two parties have grudgingly cooperated with each other on many issues such as in the education and health sectors. But don’t expect one to invite the other to a dinner party.
“What do you think?” I ask Petlow.
“I doubt the Turkish route theory. It doesn’t make a lot of sense. For one thing, Turkey is supposedly one of our allies and they’re just as concerned about illegal arms traffic as we are. Another thing is that the route would be more difficult. Benton always thought that the arms originated in one of the former Soviet satellites. Maybe Azerbaijan. In order to get to Iraq from there, they’d have to go through Armenia and then Turkey. It’s a straighter shoot out of Azerbaijan through Iran and into Iraq.”
“So you’re saying that I should look into the Rawanduz connection first?” I ask.
Petlow shrugs. “It’s just an opinion. Doesn’t mean I’m right.”
I mull this over and say, “Southeast Turkey is a Kurdish region, too. There could be some cooperation going on between the tribes. There’s also a lot of terrorist activity in that part of Turkey.”
“That’s true, too. Look, I’ll be honest with you, Fisher. You don’t have a lot to go on. What are you going to do when you get up there? Knock on doors? Benton didn’t leave you anything to give you some direction, did he?”
“No, I’ll just have to play it by ear at first. I figure I have to start in Mosul. I imagine I’ll begin by investigating the sites in the city where illegal arms have been discovered. The goal is to find a lead pointing me in the right direction.”
“Well, good luck.” Petlow stands and picks up a duffel bag. “This came in the official pouch from Washington,” he says, handing it to me. “It’s for you.”
The only weapon I carried on the plane is my genuine Marine Corps combat knife. It’s got a 7-inch carbon steel blade with a blood groove and a 5-inch leather handle. I remove it from its sheath and cut the rope binding the end of the duffel bag. My SC-20K and Osprey are inside, along with boxes of various types of ammunition.
“I can use this stuff,” I mutter.
Petlow then opens his desk and hands me a set of keys. “There’s an unmarked Toyota Land Cruiser in the compound outside. It’s yours to do with what you will. We don’t need it back. We’ve checked it out and it runs fine. Believe it or not, imported vehicles do very well in Iraq. I know a car dealer in Baghdad who’s gotten rich since the war began.”
“How’s security on the roads? What kinds of checkpoints can I expect?”
“You can expect checkpoints everywhere and some of them will delay you considerably. But if you dress appropriately, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with the locals. You have such a swarthy complexion that you look like you might be Arabic. Do you speak Arabic?”
“Yeah.” In fact, I speak seven languages. It’s English I’m not so great at. I take the keys. “Thanks.”
“Have you eaten? Would you like—”
Before Petlow can finish his invitation, a huge crack of thunder rocks the building. We look at each other and both immediately know that it wasn’t thunder.
“Damn,” Petlow mutters. “That was a big one.” He shoots toward the door and runs outside. I follow him and join the throng of soldiers rushing from the building.
The air is dark and full of smoke. Sirens blare as emergency personnel appear on the scene. Men are shouting orders all over the place, and for a few minutes it’s a mass of confusion. Eventually, though, the smoke begins to clear and I can see flames over by the fortified fence that separates the base from the outside world. A section of the fence is completely gone and in its place is a hulk of black, burning metal.
I stand out of the way and watch the professionals deal with it. These soldiers are obviously used to thi
s kind of thing happening all the time. Fifteen minutes later Colonel Petlow sees me and takes me aside.
“It was a laundry van,” he says. “Suicide driver, of course. The eyewitnesses say he drove straight for the checkpoint gate at full speed. One of the sentries fired at him to try and stop the thing, but it was too late. Damn explosives took out two of our men and a big chunk of fence. What a waste. What the hell do they think they’re accomplishing? This is the third one in two weeks.”
I commiserate and say that at least no one else was hurt.
“You know, these guys are getting their explosives from terrorist supply lines,” Petlow continues. “There’s no doubt about it. They couldn’t have stockpiled it for all this time. Go plug up that pipeline, Fisher. I’m here if you need anything, so don’t hesitate to call. You’ve got my number?”
I give him a bleak smile. We shake hands and then he rushes back toward the mess of burning debris.
8
Sarah Burns was having a wonderful time in Jerusalem. On the third night of her stay, she and Rivka decided to break the double-date routine and go off separately with their beaus. Rivka and Noel went to the movies. Sarah and Eli opted for a romantic stroll through the Old City and dinner in the New City.
Sarah had been brought up secularly and had no allegiance to any particular faith. She was one of those naïve but well-meaning people that was constantly bewildered by the fact that different races and religions found it difficult to get along. It was this purity of heart that made her so attractive, and she was well aware of it. Sarah often exploited this side of her personality in a charming, all-American girl-next-door persona. Academically she was very bright and accustomed to being an overachiever, but this didn’t mean she was particularly worldly. Her mother, and later her father, had raised her in a protective environment that sheltered her from the liabilities of the street. She was, therefore, unintentionally gullible — a trait she never realized might someday get her into trouble.
As she walked arm in arm with Eli, the young man with whom she was enamored, Sarah had no reason to worry about terrorists, suicide bombers, Arab-Jewish conflicts, or the peace process. The only thing on her mind that evening was whether or not she and Eli would eventually end up in a bedroom.
She had met Eli at the Northwestern University library during her sophomore year. Rivka Cohen belonged to a campus social club of Israeli students. She had arranged to study with a boy she was interested in, a fellow named Noel Brooks. Rivka asked Sarah to come along because Noel might bring a friend. Sarah needed to study for an exam so she thought, why not? She and Rivka found themselves at a table in the library and after a while Noel showed up with a companion. They sat across the table from the girls and introductions were made. His name was Eli Horowitz. Sarah thought he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He had dark, curly hair, brown eyes, a closely cut beard and mustache, and was tall and muscular. He would have resembled Michelangelo’s David if the statue had sported facial hair. Sarah attempted to continue studying, but she found the young man’s presence quite distracting.
Eli, like Noel, was a graduate student from Israel. He was studying music and wanted to be a conductor. He didn’t specialize in any particular instrument but claimed to be able to play several “not very well.”
After the study session, the girls said goodbye to the boys and they went their separate ways. That night, Eli called to ask her out.
They dated for three months. Eli and Noel had an apartment off-campus and Sarah found herself often staying there. As a sophomore, she still lived in a dorm, but the rules were lax enough that she could sign out to “stay with a friend.” It got to where she rarely slept at the dorm.
Then, suddenly, both Eli and Noel were gone. Rivka and Sarah tried in vain to find out what had happened. At first they were hurt badly because they thought the boys had abandoned them without saying goodbye. Two letters arrived a month later, one for Rivka and one for Sarah. The boys explained that Immigration had deported them. Their student visas had been invalid — expired months earlier — and due to the heightened security rules regarding foreign students, they had no recourse.
Sarah kept in touch with Eli by e-mail once he was reestablished in Israel. He didn’t reply often, which concerned her, but she figured he was busy looking for work or whatever. When he did write, the e-mails were full of love and adoration, many times loaded with sexual suggestions and invitations for her to come and visit. This encouraged Sarah to carry a torch for the young man.
And now, ten months later, here she was walking with him through the historic Old City of Jerusalem. Eli gave her a running commentary as they strolled through the narrow streets.
“You see, it’s divided into four quarters. This is the Christian Quarter, the one we’re in now. Over that way is the Muslim Quarter, and over there is the Armenian Quarter. The Jewish Quarter is straight across, to the east.”
“You sound like a tour guide,” Sarah said, laughing.
“I worked as a tour guide when I was a teenager,” Eli said. “I’d take fat Americans all over the city in a company car. Sometimes I’d drive really fast and scare the hell out of them.”
She slapped his arm and said, “You’re awful.”
They approached a somber church that appeared to have been built in a patchwork-quilt fashion. It was made up of several architectural styles but was impressive by its sheer antiquity.
“This is the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” Eli said. “It’s built on the site where the Catholics think Jesus was crucified.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The Orthodox and Coptic churches believe it, too.”
“You mean not everyone thinks it’s here?”
“Nope. There’s a place in East Jerusalem where most Protestants think it happened. You want to go inside?”
“I don’t think so. I’d rather keep walking.”
“Okay.”
The couple moved south and east one block to the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer. Eli took her up the tower so they could see the excellent view of the Old City. As they gazed upon the marvelous vista, Sarah said, “You haven’t told me where you live. Do you and Noel share a place?”
“No, I live alone now,” Eli answered. “I have an apartment in East Jerusalem.”
“Oh, yeah? You going to show it to me?” She squeezed his waist flirtatiously.
He smiled. “Maybe. You know East Jerusalem is the Palestinian part of the city.”
“So?”
“I’m just saying.”
After descending the tower they walked to David Street and headed west. When they reached the Jaffa Gate, Eli said, “This is the traditional doorway between the Old City and the New City.” He pointed to an old building. “That’s the Crusader Citadel. That’s where they think King Herod hung out.”
“There’s so much history here,” Sarah said, wide-eyed.
“You hungry?”
“Starving!”
“Let’s go eat. I know a very famous place in the New City.”
They walked up the Jaffa Road past expensive gift shops and eateries until they came to the Village Green Restaurant.
“I’ve heard of this place,” Sarah observed.
“Some people think it’s the best restaurant in Jerusalem,” Eli said. They entered, secured a table, and looked at the menu.
“It’s kosher vegetarian,” Eli explained. “No meat for you carnivores.”
Sarah kicked him lightly under the table. “Hey, I like my hamburgers. But I like veggies, too. What’s good?”
“I like their pizza.”
She ended up ordering a meatless lasagna dish, vegetable soup, and a salad. Eli asked for a mushroom pizza and a bottle of kosher red wine.
As she watched him eat, she was reminded of her father’s probing questions. She liked Eli a lot, but it was true she didn’t know a lot about his background.
“Tell me about your parents,” she said.
He shrugged, chewing o
n a piece of food. “What’s to tell?”
“They live here?”
“Um, no. At one time they did.”
“Where are they now?”
“My mother is in Lebanon. My father was Jewish and my mother is Muslim. They didn’t stay together.”
“I didn’t know that,” Sarah said. “Why haven’t you told me that?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“How old were you when… they divorced?”
He laughed inwardly. “They were never married. It was a bit of a scandal, I think. Not many Muslims and Jews have children together. My mother raised me until I was seven. Then… well, I went to live with relatives in Lebanon. I came back here when I was eighteen.”
“Where’s your father?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
He shrugged again. “It happened when I was young. It was a terrorist bombing. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Gee, Eli.”
“Your mother is dead, too, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yeah. She died of cancer when I was fifteen.”
“And your father… is he still an ‘international salesman’?”
She looked at him sideways. “You say that like you’re skeptical.”
He laughed. “It’s just that you don’t seem to know much about what he does for a living. You never have.”
“That’s true, I guess.”
“You see him much?”
“No, not really. He lives in Baltimore, or rather a suburb of Baltimore.”
“That’s near Washington, D.C., you know,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s probably in the CIA.” Eli said it facetiously.
“Actually he did work for the CIA a long time ago. Not anymore, though. He was in the CIA when he met my mother.”